


Pick-ups and Put-downs

by Shachaai



Series: APH Olympics [14]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Rio 2016 Summer Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 06:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20041459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: England sorely regrets ever inviting certain Nations to join him for breakfast. Half of them don’t make it to the table, Canada might stab America with a fork, and America is deeply unimpressed by the team mascots.





	Pick-ups and Put-downs

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr. This was originally written at the time of the 2016 Olympics in Brazil.

Despite the - huge - size of the room, finding a free table in the dining hall in the Olympic Village can be hard. The place is a pandemonium of noise and colour, from every walk of life, in every language - and it looks like it’s going to give Canada a mild conniption as he manages to bump into four different people from Palau, Cape Verde, Rwanda and Brunei in half as many minutes and trips his tongue up in three different languages attempting to apologise to them all. Hopefully he’ll steady up somewhat; if he bumps into someone else - and/or, God forbid, knocks his tea and pancakes off his tray - England thinks the lad might cry.

England, left as the sole guardian of the table he and his breakfast companions of the day have seized for their own whilst the others fetch their food, idly butters his miniature baguette and tries not to look too calculating as he glances around the room. Old habits die hard, and, with the room full of so many people from so many countries (and not-quite countries, depending on your opinion of those recognised by the International Olympic and Paralympic Committees), he cannot _quite_ be relaxed. There is a lot of potential for trouble - a world of it, from Algeria to Zimbabwe -, or, at the very least, a _headache_. The tables all around England’s are full: humans from Micronesia and Nauru are talking loudly on one, more athletes from Macedonia, Kosovo and Serbia bickering across two others, and England’s fourth side is covered by a group of terribly unimpressed women from Panama, Nicaragua and Costa Rica who are being hit on by three hopeful Frenchmen. Monaco and Switzerland are looking suspicious - or business-like, it can be hard to tell with them - together by the breakfast pastries, Australia is bothering Vanuatu and Samoa and has just managed to drop a large slither of bacon on Samoa’s foot, and Bhutan appears to be raving to the slightly bewildered-looking trio of Sierra Leone, Guinea, and Guinea-Bissau about alternative breakfast staples than what they are accustomed to.

Canada manages to make it to the breakfast table with his breakfast and the shreds of his dignity flustered but intact, taking the seat opposite to England and smiling tentatively. “It’s a bit busy this morning, eh?”

“It would have been less busy had we arrived earlier,” England points out mildly, still spreading condiments on his baguette. He has decided he needs some luxury to deal with this morning’s insanity, and so there is strawberry jam going on top of the butter. “But, alas, your siblings…”

Canada keeps smiling, though its corners turn into a wince. “Yeah…”

Australia’s diplomatic incident now seems to include Tuvalu and dramatically pointed pieces of cooked seaweed, England hasn’t the faintest idea where New Zealand has gotten himself to, and Bermuda had disappeared with the Cayman Islands a full twenty-five minutes ago claiming they were looking for a _properly _spicy spice bun.

“It’s pointless waiting,” England says, and sets down his knife. “You may as well eat your food whilst it’s hot.”

“Um, if you’re really sure…”

England is really sure. To reinforce this point, he keeps his gaze locked with Canada’s, raises his baguette and takes a deliberate crunchy bite out of it.

Canada takes the hint and begins tucking into some of his scrambled eggs.

Australia finally settles his little incident - the final Nation count he seems to have managed to annoy in one go racking up at _four_ (American Samoa had been added to the other three when the flailed seaweed had ended up hitting him in the face) - and troops over to join them, his grin wide and unaffected as he _dumps_ his body in the chair next to Canada’s. His knee smacks both Canada’s _and_ England’s under the table, but his greeting is drowned out by the regular burst of raucous cheering from the members of the Portuguese team that like to haunt the tables near the dining room’s condom dispenser. _Some_ poor sod had thought they could use the dispenser discreetly - and now finds a third of the dining hall turning to watch their Walk of Shame/Infamy, as the Portuguese like to burst into noisy, ribald applause to mark _every_ occasion of the dispenser’s use.

Today’s victim appears to be a red-faced woman in Bangladeshi colours. She stalks away from the Portuguese hollering with a defiant hair-toss, sticking her thumb up behind her in her country’s non-verbal way of announcing _fuck you_. The gesture impresses a table full of Madagascan women she passes, who smile and applaud - and then laugh riotously when a man from San Marino stops by the Portuguese table and, smiling, says something quick that silences the (male) Portuguese laughter remarkably fast.

Australia, who had swung around in his seat like the rest of them to watch the show, turns his attention back to his breakfast companions. “Reckon one of them’ll get decked soon enough.”

“Most likely.” England wipes away some of the crumbs at his mouth with his thumb, glancing thoughtfully over Australia’s shoulder. He can see a maelstrom of movement approaching, and it appears to be red, white and blue. With _stars_ on it. “Just make sure you’re not the one throwing the first punch, or they’ll have you by the neck.”

“Think I’m old enough now t’know how to keep myself out of trouble -” Canada snorts around a mouthful of eggs and Australia pouts at him, but amends his assertion to: “_Fine_. I’m old enough now t’know how to not get _caught_ for trouble -” England looks at him, eyebrows arched - “…that often?”

Canada puts down his fork. “When a sentence has that many qualifiers in it, you should just give up from the start.”

Australia puts his elbow into Canada’s side.

America arrives in a cacophony of disarray, less negotiating his way _around_ five Sudanese (or South Sudanese? It is hard to tell before America scatters them with his trays of food and flying elbows) men and more just bursting past them. One of his trays hits the table with a dramatic _bang_, sliding across the smooth surface and almost colliding with England’s mug of tea - which England lifts just in time to avoid having his drink sloshed all over his lap.

_“Skill,”_ Australia comments with a whistle, and rather protectively lifts up the covered flask he has on his own tray - which is _not_, England absently notes, either from the dining hall or Olympic issue, as it has cartoon kangaroos beaming inanely on its side. Probably his personal coffee supply from the barista Team Australia had had the foresight to bring along with them, since the only place that serves coffee in all of the Olympic Village is the McDonalds - hence why the McDonalds queue is always at least a literal mile long.

“Practice,” England corrects, right before America flings himself down into the seat beside him, a second tray hitting the table with another _bang_ loud enough all their cutlery rattles. England sighs, and glances to his latest prodigal one. “Must you?”

America just laughs at him. “Tea gone stale and got your panties in a bunch?” England frowns in reply, so America turns his megawatt grin on Australia and Canada. “Sorry for the wait; there was just so much to choose from -”

“So you chose _everything?”_ Canada asks, with an eye on America’s exceedingly full trays. There are at least two large plates and two saucers on each, as well as glasses of milk and juice.

“I’m a growing boy!” America defends himself, as Australia hoots.

“Yeah, growing _sideways_ -”

_“Canada,”_ England reprimands, even at the same time America lets loose an indignant _hey!_

Flask nursed rather protectively on his lap, Australia spears one of the sausages on his plate. He waves it in England’s direction. _“You_ said it would be nice if we could have a meal together, old man.”

“A suggestion I have been regretting since the moment I made it.”

America is distracted from his own wounded pride by England’s cynicism. “But breakfast is the most important meal of the day!” England is too busy swallowing a mouthful of his tea to reply -_ so important I should have spent it _alone _rather than in this madhouse_ -, so America continues, Hollywood-enthusiastic: “They’ll plate up anything here.” A sly glance at Canada. “Glad your bear ain’t here, or he might be on the menu.”

Busy cutting up his pancakes, Canada’s eyes narrow dangerously. “And why is _that?”_

“Well, he’s certainly chubby enough to feed half the room -”

“Kumashigou is not _fat_. He’s _fluffy_.”

America snorts at him. “If _that’s_ what you’re calling it. As it is, we might just feed them your dumb moose mascot.”

_“America,”_ England sighs, cutting over Canada’s wordless cry of outrage, “don’t call your brother’s moose mascot dumb.”

“Oh, _c’mon_,” America protests. “It’s a giant hunk of maple-covered red and white plastic that’s good for nothing except reminding you which end of the Village to avoid -”

_“America,”_ England says again, more sternly.

“He called me fat!” America insists, defending himself.

“And you’ve insulted his friend _and_ his team mascot in return, so _give it a rest.”_ Before Canada lunges across the table and tries to stab his brother with his pancake fork.

Perhaps driven away by the bickering on _this_ table, one of the tables of humans from Macedonia, Kosovo and Serbia clear away. Their spaces are almost immediately filled by more athletes from Kenya and Ethiopia.

“‘Sides,” Australia adds cheerfully, busy digging into some pancakes of his own, “if you want dumb mascots, have you seen the pom’s?”

America and Canada both pause in their glaring at one another to think about it. And then they both look at England.

“You’ve got that weirdo cartoon lion, right?” asks America. “What’s it called… Percy? Prudy?”

_“Pride,”_ England grits out, insulted at the _weirdo._

“Shit pun,” Australia offers with his mouth full of pancake.

Tellingly, Canada refuses to look at England.

America whistles. “Dude, that’s _gay.”_

England is inviting none of them to join him for mealtimes _ever again_.


End file.
